_Oh, the Dutchman went to Hell, And an English flag in England flew, And England liked it well When the King o’ England got his own. When across the Straits of Dover The English King came over, Came triumphantly over to his own!_ Porter sat down amid ringing applause from all save Caryl, who remarked dryly: “Surely it should not have been in the past tense, your grace, since these wonders remain yet to be performed.” Berwick slipped back into his chair. “La, ain’t you glum, Caryl! Wait till Saturday—” The word was echoed round the table: “Saturday! Let us drink to Saturday!” Berwick filled his glass with no very steady hand. “You drink,” he said to Caryl, “to the sticking of the rotten Orange—to Saturday, Turnham Green—” Jerome Caryl looked round the flushed, excited faces; there was not one there completely master of his wits, not one cool head among them; the only one who sat collected and quiet was Lady Breadalbane. “You have not explained yourself, sir,” said Jerome in a cold disgust. “I know nothing of these plans formed behind my back. I only know that the plot I had in hand has fallen through—and that every man engaged in it is better beyond seas.” Berwick laughed. “This is none of your labored schemes for landing the French, Caryl—it is a neat little affair between me—these gentlemen and Breadalbane.” The Countess glanced up at her husband’s name and looked quickly at Caryl as he answered: “You still speak in riddles, your grace.” “La! ain’t you tiresome? Don’t you remember the Grandval affair?” “My God! Is this such another?” “No—it ain’t so clumsy—Grandval was a damned crazy foreigner who bungled the job—” “But your intentions, your grace, are the same.” “I tell you—we ain’t going to bungle!” “No firing—the cold steel!” cried Porter. Jerome Caryl rose from his seat beside Berwick and looked down the table; the light was strong on his grave face and the Countess Peggy never took her gaze from him. “So—you plan to murder the Prince of Orange?” said Jerome calmly. There was an annoyed silence; a half-sullen uneasiness seemed to pervade the company, then Berwick said, in an unwilling manner: “It ain’t murder—we’re just going to take him off—when he changes coaches at the river—as he always does on Saturday when he goes hunting—” “Twenty men to one,” answered Jerome. “It is murder.” Berwick flushed to the roots of his hair. “You use ugly words, Caryl.” “Yet I state your meaning, sir.” “I said nothing of—murder.” “You spoke of making away with the Prince.” “A lucky thrust—a lucky shot.” “Such as might happen any day,” finished Porter. “In war,” said Caryl. “Isn’t it always war—till the King returns?” “You plan murder.” “By God, Caryl, you go too far.” “Your grace goes farther.” “In the service of the King—yes.” “Perhaps—honor is above the King.” “No cant, Mr. Caryl,” shouted Porter.